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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26166925">Passing On</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourthFloorWrites/pseuds/FourthFloorWrites'>FourthFloorWrites</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, character death is impending but not shown explicitly, sort of g1-ish</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 04:14:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,720</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26166925</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourthFloorWrites/pseuds/FourthFloorWrites</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Optimus is fading. Soon, the burden of the Primacy will fall to Hot Rod. They have a long overdue talk.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Optimus Prime &amp; Rodimus | Rodimus Prime</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Passing On</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Optimus Prime is brittle the last time Hot Rod sees him.</p><p>It’s not just his plating, which creaks under its own weight when he moves, its finish dulled and paint chipping, nor the way his optics flicker when he speaks, as though maintaining their glow takes focus he no longer has. Even his voice is leaving him. It’s still that old rumble Hot Rod remembers from the moment Vector Sigma brought him online, but the treble dips in and out, sometimes climbing so high that it shorts out his voice box and he needs to reboot it. The bass is not always powerful enough to make up for his lack of volume, either, and sometimes Hot Rod feels his words more than he hears them.</p><p>It’s Optimus, though. It’s easy enough to guess what he’s saying as he stands before the energon dispenser, insistent to the end that he doesn’t need aid.</p><p><em>To the depths,</em> Hot Rod thinks. But he’s brittle, in a way that he might shatter if Hot Rod tries to illuminate his reality, so there is no argument as Optimus fills the cubes one at a time and sets them on the little table he has in his living space. Four chairs around it, one perfectly centered: either Ultra Magnus or Prowl has been here recently. When Hot Rod looks around, he sees evidence of other guests: an upturned waste receptacle that Cliffjumper would insist on using in place of a chair, a vase of Earth flowers and a bottle of water to keep them fresh from Hound, the indent on the couch where he knows Bumblebee has spent most nights.</p><p>Everyone has been by at least once in the last couple weeks. Hot Rod’s the last.</p><p>He takes the cube when it’s passed to him and holds it in two hands, feeling his plating tingle with the radiation. An absurd thought passes through his mind: if he doesn’t take a sip, he can make this moment last forever. Because really, that’s what he’s been doing. Stretching out the days until they nearly snap, drawing out time like it’s a coil of wire come slithering out of the planet’s internals. Never mind that it will have to end at some point. He can just keep reeling it out, around and around and--</p><p>“Thank you,” he says.</p><p>“Of course.” Optimus’ own cube is already on the table. He presses one hand beside it, and the other on the back of his chair. He leans forward, and then there is a hiss of hydraulics as he lowers himself down, scratching and squeaking coming from somewhere deep, where oil can’t reach. Hot Rod’s grip tightens, and he flutters over his seat, not sure whether he’s meant to assist.</p><p>But, with the sound of one bumper enthusiastically nudging another in a tight parking space, Optimus drops into his seat. He releases his grip and leans back, and Hot Rod does not stop staring until his optics come back online and he sits up.</p><p>“I once said that battles were not won with the strength of our fists, but with the compassion of our friends,” he says. “I stand by that. But I do think I might have underestimated the value of good actuators.”</p><p>Hot Rod feels his lip start to curl and has to look down at his energon, which is shockingly calm within its cube. It’s wrong to laugh at a Prime who’s making self-deprecating jokes about his own deteriorating health, right?</p><p>“When you speak to Primus, please let Him know I admitted that. I worry I might have offended Him, after being given this body and then espousing its uselessness for several million years.”</p><p>Hot Rod barks a laugh as his optics shoot up to Optimus. Slouched, optics steady but dim. Hot Rod wishes he’d tried harder to convince the Prime to invest in a mouth upgrade, just to see what he’s feeling.</p><p>An ancient blue finger lifts from the table and flicks toward Hot Rod’s cube before settling again.</p><p>“Please, drink,” Optimus says. He makes no move toward his own energon.</p><p>Hot Rod brings the cube to his lips and swallows two mouthfuls in succession.  It is standard grade, better than what Hot Rod grew up with throughout the war. The reservoirs beneath the nearby Manganese Mountains are infused with the element of the same name, and even in its purified state the energon retains a subtle, soft flavor that reminds Hot Rod of standing in a field on Earth, surrounded for miles by squat vegetation that crackled under his steps.</p><p>Those are good memories.</p><p>When he lowers the cube again, Optimus is still watching him, and Hot Rod feels his protoform shrink away from his plating. He imagines himself as a newly forged bot, sneaking into a set of unused armor and peering through the optic lenses, only to discover the Prime looking back, watching as he scrambles around inside. It is a very weird fantasy, and he worries, not for the first time, if the Matrix might grant mind reading powers.</p><p>“Is there anything you would like me to tell you?” Optimus asks, with the tone Hot Rod tells himself one uses when trying to fill a silence that has drawn on too long, and not one for desperately diverging from an unsolicited daydream. “I will be with you always, of course, but there are some questions that benefit from being asked in the metal.”</p><p>He’s not sure he has any. The basic responsibilities have already been laid out for him: take care of the planet, improve society, put Galvatron or Starscream or whoever’s trying to break the peace back in the smelter every few decades, run errands. All the things he’s been doing at a smaller scale since the day he was given life. But that’s probably a bad look for a soon-to-be Prime, so he wracks his processor for something that will be useful and make it clear like he’s given this more thought than how his alt-mode is going to change and whether he’ll need a larger berth.</p><p>“What do you wish you’d seen coming?” he asks.</p><p>“None of it.”</p><p>Hot Rod jumps with the cube halfway to his mouth and a couple drops splash out onto his chest. He wipes them away, avoiding ugly marks in his finish, and gives himself two seconds to process the abrupt answer and come up with an intelligent response.</p><p>“None of it?” he ends up repeating.</p><p>“I wouldn’t have <em>wished</em> to know any of it, no,” Optimus says. “If the option had been available to me, I would have taken it, if only because Prowl would never have let me know peace otherwise. But it’s not something I would want.”</p><p>His helm tilts as he talks, and his fingers move, drawing little loops in the air that only faintly resemble the sweeping gestures he once made when commanding an army or taking charge in a command meeting.</p><p>“I know it’s selfish,” he goes on, “and that is something you will have to learn to live with. We are simply machines, Hot Rod.” His voice ticks up into a higher tone, and he takes a moment to reset it. “You will have selfish desires that conflict with your role and the standards others hold you to. You must make peace with that now.”</p><p>“Okay,” Hot Rod says, knowing it won’t be a problem. He’s been called selfish his whole life, no matter how hard he’s tried not to be. What’s a few more naysayers?</p><p>Optimus’ gaze is traveling away from him now, rolling over the small room where he has spent the last few weeks of his life.</p><p>“If, at any point, I had known what was coming, I would have been terrified to proceed,” he confesses. “In the beginning of the war, I had hope that the Decepticons would realize Megatron had tricked them and the war would end quickly. And with each new campaign, I told myself that we would see it through without any more pointless loss of life. Even after being wrong every time, I <em>had</em> to keep repeating these things to myself, to convince myself we were on the right path.” He shakes his helm, a sharp movement that breaks his wandering as abruptly as a blown tire. “Had I the ability to see the devastation my actions would bring? It would have been a greater torture than the Matrix has the power to protect me from.”</p><p>He’s shaking, Hot Rod realizes. His fingers are still sculpting the air, but they vibrate back and forth as they move, like even their weight has become too much. Instinct seizes him and he reaches forward, their fingertips only brushing before Optimus entwines them, gripping with more strength than Hot Rod thought the old bot had left.</p><p>He does not agree with everything Optimus has done, but as a friend, a mentor, he does love his Prime.</p><p>There is an audible click when Optimus turns his voice box on, a second as he turns it off again with a shake of his helm. Hot Rod reaches up to cover their clasped hands, fingers rubbing circles until he notices blue flakes on his yellow, dust-like. Optimus pays it no mind.</p><p>A third click.</p><p>“My only hope is that it has been enough,” he says. Hot Rod can feel his voice through every point where their plating joins, like a radio antenna absorbing signal. He captures the sensation in a separate memory file that he stores among his other treasures.</p><p>“Enough for what?” he asks.</p><p>“For you,” Optimus says. “That the peace and prosperity I knew in my youth, you will see flourish here, in your old age.”</p><p>“Hey, I’m not old yet.” He smirks. He’s not young, either, but he’s still got the charm to suggest otherwise.</p><p>“No,” Optimus agrees with a hum that might be a laugh. “You’re younger than I was when the Matrix was passed to me. You have time to fix your predecessors’ mistakes.”</p><p>Time, yes, but ability? Hot Rod’s track record is a list of mistakes longer than a Cybertronian highway. Most bots don’t trust him, and fewer still like him. His actions have delayed missions, alerted targets, frustrated Prowl to the point of crashing. He’s gotten people killed. And he knows that at the end of this war of survival and chance, he’s not alone in any of those points, and there are others who have done much worse, but he’s the only one in line to become the leader of their planet.</p><p>He’s going to fuck it up. His hand shifts, and now he’s not sure who’s holding on tighter, as though by mechanical force he can bind Optimus to this side of Vector Sigma and put off his <em>destiny</em> indefinitely.</p><p>“What if I don’t?” he asks. “What if I end up back where we started? Or I make it worse? Primus, what if—what if I run away?” It would not be the first time. As a soldier, and later an agent, he’d been reckless, tearing off on missions he deemed more important than whatever uncolonized organic world Prowl wanted him to go scout. In the moment, he’d always told himself he was doing it for the right reasons, but when the reprimand came later, he would always wonder if their accusations were true. If he was just a coward, peeling away from where he was needed to guarantee himself one or two more days among the stars.</p><p>There was an uproar among special operations the day before Optimus announced his successor. Three agents (that Hot Rod knows of) defected. One is still on the lam. He keeps Prowl’s comm frequency on priority alert in case there are updates; when the agent is found, Hot Rod needs to talk to them.</p><p>Optimus reaches forward. He takes Hot Rod’s energon cube and returns it to him. Their clasped hands are exposed again, and Hot Rod is almost distracted by the way blue and yellow intersect.</p><p>“Drink,” Optimus repeats. He waits until Hot Rod has taken a gulp to go on. “I was tortured by the possibility of what my actions could bring about,” he says. “I imagine you will be similar, though unfortunately in reverse. You feel your guilt and regret more heavily than most. Though others might still see the racer who emerged from Vector Sigma with four wheels on the ground, I know the steps you have taken to improve yourself. I do not believe you would do something that would cause you that much distress later on.” He nods to the cube, and Hot Rod takes another sip. “You were brought online with both a gift and a curse: you care about other beings, often more so than yourself. I suspect your greatest struggle will be, as it has always been, learning that balance.”</p><p>And Hot Rod can only stare, even when Optimus raises his free hand briefly to point at the cube again.</p><p>“You—you’re wrong, though,” he stutters. “I’m—I only care about myself. I’m selfish. I don’t think about anyone else.” Shortsighted, lazy, thrill-seeking, undisciplined, immature. Those aren’t even all things he’s been described as—some he just <em>knows</em>.</p><p>Optimus steadies his flickering optics long enough to stare at Hot Rod, a gentle glow that pings memories files he didn’t know are still there.</p><p>“Is that truly what you think of yourself?” he asks.</p><p>Hot Rod’s voice box comes on, every intention to say <em>yes</em>, and then with a click it shuts off again. His coding feels scrambled: he cannot find the command to bring his voice back. Optimus’ hand is no longer the shaking one.</p><p>He’s halfway there before he realizes he’s being moved. The mostly empty cube falls out of his hand, but the sound of impact is nothing compared to the <em>clang</em> their plating makes when Optimus pulls him into the hug. He yelps and moves quickly, getting his legs underneath him and one arm over Optimus’ shoulder, expecting to be dropped. But Optimus holds on, his forehelm pressing against Hot Rod’s shoulder so they can no longer see each other’s expressions.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says, “I should have told you more.” And before Hot Rod can ask what, he goes on, “Your compassion and ingenuity saved countless lives that others deemed beyond hope or negligible compared to other factors. You act based on what you know to be right, even if to do so challenges the methods we have always used. Perhaps even especially then. I see in you the leader I always wished I could have been, the symbol of hope that the Matrix was supposed to imbue in a Prime, and I know my choice is the right one. I trust <em>you</em> with the future of Cybertron.”</p><p>Hot Rod’s plating is clamped so tight the pieces have started to rattle together, a cacophony that Optimus’ voice is somehow able to rise above. He is <em>so scared</em> of what’s to come. Even with the backing of Optimus’ council and the decision to introduce democracy and improving relationships with their galactic neighbors, there is so much that falls on him and so many ways he can screw it up. Him, the bot whose claim to fame should have stayed at surfing meteors, who only got through the war thanks to the same dumb luck most of them are still struggling to acknowledge. He doesn’t want another war, which means he has to give Cybertron’s growing population no reasons to start one, and thinking on that scale starts to send his processor into a spiral.</p><p>He centers himself. He is here, in his frame, which Optimus Prime is holding up. And soon he will have to stand on his own, soon the responsibilities he spent a lifetime dodging will catch up. He cannot run anymore: there is no ship in the universe fast enough to get him away from his destiny. But right now, he is being held with old, familiar arms, wreathed in a scent that reminds him of standing on a barren asteroid orbiting a blue dwarf star. He leans into it.</p><p>He trusts Optimus, and Optimus trusts him. That will have to be enough.</p><p>Hot Rod hugs his mentor for the last time, and Optimus is strong.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading &lt;3 Check me out on <a href="https://libermachinae.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/libermachinae">Twitter</a>, too :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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